Stained
by macrauchenia
Summary: Birthmarks, deathmarks—a beginning and an end with two tentative touches in between, serving as bookends. Entire lifetimes can be mapped and connected by ruddy blots and dark stains. Being presorted like a pack of socks isn't something Kaneki would consider a blessing. [Soulmate!AU, where one soulmate is marked by the first touch while the other is branded by the last] [HideKane]


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Not a thing.  
 **Author's Note:** First of all, warning for major character death and slight deviation from canon. Secondly, I've been meaning to do a Soulmate!AU for forever, but I wanted to shake things up a bit. I haven't seen many stories that incorporate this kind of soul mark. Enjoy!

* * *

 _ **Soul Stains.** _

_One soulmate possesses the birthmark – where the soulmates first touch. The other possesses the deathmark – where the soulmates last touch before they part. Regardless of either soulmate's actions, the effects of soul stains are irreversible and inescapable._

* * *

Birthmarks, deathmarks—a beginning and an ending with two tentative touches in between, serving as monumental bookends. Entire lifetimes can be mapped and connected by ruddy blots and dark stains.

Being presorted like a glorified pack of socks isn't something Kaneki would consider a blessing. It's all a bit too convenient, he decides. Fate must have grown bored with the unpredictability of free will.

He hopes she won't be a vindictive mistress, eager to take her vengeance for his blasphemy.

…

He scrubs at the dark stain on his right hand until his skin glows raw. Although he's had the mark for as long as he can remember, he's grown tired of mistaking it for smeared dirt. His mother pulls him into her lap and explains with soothing whispers how someday Kaneki will meet his soulmate. It's a birthmark, she murmurs. He'll know who he's supposed to love from the beginning.

He doesn't understand how a weird blotch on his palm can guide him, but he doesn't worry too much. Right now, he feels content to drift away in his mother's warm arms, dreaming of bird wings and sunshine.

…

Kaneki finds himself drawn to the beautiful intricacy of each soul stain pair. He sees hundreds of different patterns along faces and arms and he wonders how many marks lurk under the modest surface. Many look kind, dark stains along lips or along cheekbones. Others look rather plain, spots of discoloration where outstretched hands would meet.

(He's relieved that his soul stain seems to be of the boring variety.)

Some look very unkind, angry red splotches around throats and across cheeks. Fate does not reward everyone with a happy ending, Kaneki quickly learns.

…

A touch of jealousy underlies his mother's words each time she reminds Kaneki how _lucky_ he is to have a birthmark. He can't look away, hypnotized by the faded deathmark along her chin, caused by caressing fingers. It's the only thing left of his father.

When his mother catches his stare, she always brushes her hair over her cheek. The selfish curls gather like thunderclouds and hide the soul stain under layers of frayed, gray hair. Kaneki fears the storm looming in the distance.

…

Kaneki traces the edges of his soul stain until he could sketch each imperfect splatter from memory. He studies it in the pale morning light and the sunset's hazy glow, perpetually checking for anything he might have missed. He doesn't want to lose his chance for a soulmate because he overlooked a stray mark.

Soulmates are a big responsibility; he's cynical of the romanticized hype, promising easy love and happily ever afters. As the bearer of the birthmark, he needs to be vigilant.

…

He introduces himself in a flurry of words and unashamed grins and Kaneki wonders how he can feel so warm, long after the sun has set. For the first time, he doesn't hesitate to take a stranger's hand. Hide's fingers are sticky and smell faintly of chocolate, but Kaneki can't help but to marvel how well they overlap each piece of his soul stain, from the gentle curve of his thumb to the soft skin running along his palm.

 _Hide,_ Kaneki repeats, relishing how the word rolls so cleanly off his tongue. It's a nice name, a safe name. He says nothing as Hide drops his hand and his soul stain reappears, still warm and sticky from Hide's touch.

…

Several years pass before Kaneki musters up the courage to look at Hide's soul stain. Hide jokes about Kaneki's modesty and Kaneki keeps his eyes lowered with embarrassed smiles when they change for gym class. It's a comfortable routine.

Eventually, fear burns into curiosity and curiosity burns into urgency, damn the consequences. He takes a peek, eyes trailing along the slender, ropey mark that spans across Hide's shoulder blades.

Kaneki suppresses a sob as he realizes his soulmate will die in his arms.

…

When his mother dies, Kaneki finds himself alone again. Not for long—soon Hide stands before him, offering outstretched arms and sympathetic eyes. Kaneki buries his tearstained cheek in the crook of Hide's shoulder, catching a glimpse of his soul stain under the open neckline. He tentatively returns the hug, trembling as his forearms press against Hide's shirt and smother his deathmark with soft cotton.

Then, in a sickening swell of selfish relief, Kaneki clings to hope, noting how his tiny wrist bones don't quite line up along the dusky streak that mars Hide's smooth skin. Months, years—he can't tell for sure when they'll align.

He doesn't care as long as there's still time before he has to lose anyone else.

…

"Would you rather have a deathmark or a birthmark?"

"Huh? Like soul stains?"

Kaneki nods. Hide considers the question; as he thinks, the tip of his tongue escapes the corner of his mouth. He's never taken much stock in soul stains and fated marks.

"Ehh, I suppose I'd rather have the deathmark. It'd be such a pain to go around _looking_ for soulmates all the time. I'll take the lazy way out." He grins impishly before jumping topics. "Speaking of pain, what d'ya have in mind for your date with glasses girl tonight?"

…

With fingers laced in the thin fabric of the borrowed blanket, Kaneki pauses to consider the dark stain blossoming from the bandages around Hide's torso. He sees where his tapered wrists will rest along Hide's spine and where his forearms will fan out as they support his shoulders in the final embrace. The blurry shape almost reminds Kaneki of spread wings, but he isn't willing to let Hide fly away from him yet.

He looks so fragile and small, chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. He looks so _human._ Kaneki swallows before tucking the blanket under Hide's chin. He swears to protect him in any way he can.

…

Kaneki learns how cruel Fate can be when he pictures the deathmark that stained Ryouko-san's lips. To part with an innocent kiss, yet never knowing which one will be the last? She is a cruel mistress, indeed.

He remembers the last time he wrapped his arms around Hide, how nearly his wrist bones aligned with Hide's soul stain. How much time has passed? How much time is left?

He lies awake at night, more afraid of each ticking second than the insatiable rumble in his gut.

…

The first time he catches Hide studying his soul stain, Kaneki panics and retreats from the room.

"Yo, Kaneki! Come back! What'dya suppose this looks like?"

Kaneki shuffles back, eyes adverted from Hide's stripped torso. Hide flexes in front of the mirror, drawing back his shoulder blades to give the soul stain the illusion of labored flight. The spell breaks and Kaneki can speak again.

"Put your shirt back on," he growls in a strangled voice he hardly recognizes as his own. Unaware of the tension, Hide grins and makes a sarcastic quip. However, after seeing Kaneki's expression, Hide quickly slips the shirt back on without another word.

Looking back, Kaneki wonders what Hide saw that day. Guilt? Shame? Fear? He supposes it's too late to ask now.

…

That summer, Hide claims he's found the pinnacle of human ingenuity in the guise of an American mobster film. Namely, he's smitten with the unpredictable thrill of Russian Roulette, used so cleverly by the mob boss to root out his rivals.

As a fugitive from the CCG, Kaneki can do without the volatility of flying bullets, thank you very much. He leaves the explosives and thick accents to Hide.

However, he finds himself playing a different kind of game each time he hesitantly returns Hide's hugs. When the loaded gun continues to fire nothing but blanks, Kaneki makes the mistake of relaxing.

…

He endures each merciless cut with a detached hopelessness. The madness doesn't find him until the new fingers erupt from his knuckles and mock him with all he could lose.

He wishes that bastard could cut his lethal ties to Hide as efficiently as he slices off his extremities. But no matter how many times his fingers drop to the cold tile, they always grow back with the same damning stains.

( _Ha,_ Fate laughs with her petal-soft breath. _Everyone you love will die.)_

…

"Onii-chan," Hinami whispers, tugging on his shirt hem. "Isn't that—"

Kaneki brushes the sweat laced hair from his forehead and follows her gaze. Hide crosses the street a few meters ahead, nodding absently to his music. It's a hot day, perfect for short sleeves. Kaneki catches a glimpse of his soul stain, barely peeking out from his cuffed sleeves.

"No, we shouldn't bother him." He watches as Hide ducks into a nearby store and disappears from sight. Maybe if he stays away long enough, Kaneki can outgrow Hide's deathmark.

…

Even when he drives his fist through glass again and again until the blood trails down his elbows and he can see the pale gleam of bone, Kaneki knows it's no use, because the ripped flesh will heal and he'll be left with stains, not scars.

No one can escape Fate. He can't save Hide after all.

…

He's still— _so_ terrifyingly still—as he lies on the grimy sewer steps, his blond hair framing his relaxed face like a halo. More than anything, Kaneki wants to gather him into his arms and press his lips to the life-giving gouge in Hide's shoulder, but he can't trust himself. He knows how seamlessly his wrists and forearms would fit into the curves of Hide's deathmark and Kaneki can't risk making this their last meeting.

His bloody fingers tentatively caress Hide's smooth cheek, leaving behind a crimson stain of an entirely different kind. As he lurches towards death, he prays that Fate will be merciful for once and allow their paths to cross again.

…

Doves, he muses while looking at his reflection in the mirror, need two wings to fly. He doesn't know why the birdlike imagery is so haunting or why he feels so incomplete, but it's a bit disconcerting.

When he falls victim to these thoughts, Haise distracts himself by tracing over his soul stain. The familiar muscle memory as his finger outlines each blotch reassures him that he and his predecessor share the same superstitious reverence for soul stains. He wonders if _he_ found his soulmate or if it's something Haise has to take care of himself. Would they even share the same soulmate? He doesn't know; the soul stains don't come with instruction manuals.

…

Sometimes, Haise discovers, soul stains can be messy. Such is the case of Amon-san, whose cheek glows from the perpetual imprint of a palm and five scathing fingers. There's a chance the first touch could have been gentle, but after enduring Akira's fiery temper, Haise's fairly certain Amon met his soulmate through unorthodox means.

He hopes Akira's deathmark, a soft stain along her knuckles, will not follow the violent example of its predecessor. For their sake, he hopes for intertwined fingers and wrinkled skin.

…

Akira watches him linger every time he reaches for a stranger's hand. His eyes drop to their clasped hands, only to be disappointed by the sight of his uncovered birthmark.

"Looking for someone in particular?" Akira always asks, eyebrow hoisted.

"Yeah, someone I know like the back of my hand," he always responds, offering her a crinkle-eyed smile while his soul stained fingers ghost the bottom of his chin.

For some reason, Akira never finds the joke very funny, yet she continues to ask each time a new agent arrives.

…

"Haise, this is your new partner, Hi—"

"Just call me Hide," a blond young man interrupts, flinging his hand out with a such quick extension of his elbow that Haise hears a pop. Bemused, Haise takes his sweaty hand and his heart skips a beat when he can no longer see his birthmark.

"Have we met before?" Haise's brow furrows in concentration as he tries to unwind the constricting sensation of déjà vu in his gut.

Hide cocks his head with a tiny smile. "This is the first time I've met Haise Sasaki," he reassures him in a voice far too familiar to ever forget.

…

"So, where's your soul stain, Hide-san?"

Still young, the Quinx squad members have yet to decide how they should feel about soulmates. Much to Haise's chagrin and Hide's amusement, they bombard their supervisors with endless questions on the subject.

"Oh, here, lemme sho—" Hide's fingers brush against his starched collar.

"It's on his back," Haise interrupts, keeping his gaze firmly on his paperwork so it won't stray to his gape-mouthed team. He can't explain how he knows about Hide's soul stain, but he just does.

…

He's five years old again. Pieces of his mother's favorite vase are scattered across the floor because he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

Five-year-old Kaneki sobs as glass shards prick his trembling fingers and he sees his own blood.

Twenty-five-year-old Kaneki (Or is he Haise now? He never knows anymore) sobs as someone else's blood stains his hands. He messed up again—oh _god,_ did he mess up—and now he's going to be alone. He only has himself to blame.

As he cradles Hide's broken body, forearms and wrists lining up exactly where Fate cursed them to, Kaneki wishes that he didn't destroy everything he's ever touched.

…

He's five years old again, inspecting the slices along his palm and forefinger. Crimson trickles from the tiny nicks and dribbles onto his birthmark, doubly staining his skin with destiny and pain. If he were older, he might have recognized it as a cruel omen.

But five-year-old Kaneki isn't familiar with the term "tragedy." At least, not yet.

A week later, the cuts scab over and the vase is replaced. Life resumes as normal.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading!**


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